He weaves his flesh in me

His accusations

To displace his madness

I erupt at intervals

Too imprecise to predict.

A cartridge into which the humors

Are summarily dispensed

It is your blood in which I write.

All those empty wakes,

Those almost funerals,

And the black clothes

Worn year after year

In deference to all those

Who have gone before.

The obituaries of strangers

Crush my heart

Because I know that they were loved

And if not loved in life

Then loved by me in distillation. 


A scapegoat must suffer in kind

Must suffer far worse

If they are to serve.

The night rises up,

A murder snapping

The branches that hold

My selfness in.

An actress in a pinch

I cannot escape these conundrums

A battle for reason

Always escalates.

I am delicate, priceless

Like a mandala but more intricate

With colors that defy nomenclature.


I am not your enemy

Though my lacerated ego

Implies otherwise.

There can be no answer

For I have possessed every question

And found nothing to explain you.

No word capable of withstanding

Your definition

Your ghoulish vowels

Your shiv-riven consonants

There is no language for you.


I have had the flu this week (hubbie and daughter too) and I have been unusually sleepy. I didn’t even think I would write given how behind I have gotten!

3 thoughts on “Nomenclature

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